Witchbreaker (Dragon Apocalypse) (25 page)

“I dabble,” said Equity. “My ancestors bequeathed me a voluminous collection of ancient plays. It would have been wasteful not to read them.”

Sorrow unrolled the scroll. “I found this on the Isle of Fire. I believe it may have been written by Avaris, Queen of the Weavers.”

Equity picked up the aged parchment. “Hmm. This is the old weaver’s script. I’m a bit rusty. There are no plays written by witches, I fear.”

“So you can’t read it?”

“I didn’t say that. I’ll need to investigate a few of the words, but the gist of the manuscript is obvious. ‘Dear Sisters, our struggle has been a long and difficult one, etcetera, etcetera.’”

“It’s the
etcetera
part I’m interested in,” said Sorrow.

Equity nodded. “Very well. It goes on to say that the great persecutor is in our possession. There’s something about the man-weapon having been hollowed and needing to be refilled. These lines here explain the wisdom of retreat. The author says she will travel to the eastern isle to regain her strength, and encourages her sisters to go into hiding.”

“Does it say which eastern isle?”

“If it did, I would have told you.”

“Does it say who or what the man-weapon is?” asked Slate.

“No, but—”

At this moment everyone grew silent, as a dragon the size of a small pony limped into the room on misshapen, bandaged limbs. Slate leapt up, sending his chair skittering across the floor. They’d come to dinner unarmed, but Slate wasted little time in changing that situation, bounding to the nearest fireplace and grabbing a heavy poker.

He spun to face the dragon, brandishing the makeshift weapon.

“I told you my appearance was alarming,” said the dragon. “Please put that down, sir, before I’m forced to defend myself.”

“Brokenwing?” Sorrow asked.

“An appropriate appellation, no?” the dragon asked, glancing toward his back where his wings were braced with wooden splints. “Vigor is doing what he can to restore my limbs.”

“We were talking to a dragon?” Bigsby said, his eyes nearly popping from his skull.

“This isn’t the first time we’ve spoken, Bigsby,” Brokenwing said. “I paid you a visit in Commonground. You knew me then as Relic.”

“You’re the guy who wanted to kill Greatshadow!” Bigsby’s brow furrowed. “But if you’re a dragon, why did you want to kill another dragon?”

“Do men not kill men?” asked Brokenwing. He kept his gaze on Slate, who still brandished the poker. “I’ll ask you again, sir, to assume a less threatening pose. Not to mention it’s unwise of you to linger so close to the flames. It unsafe to stand between me and my father.”

“Your father’s Greatshadow?” asked Sorrow.

“And you want to kill him?” Bigsby said.

“Our relationship is complicated,” said Brokenwing.

“Stand down, Slate,” said Sorrow.

“But... but... dragon,” said Slate.

“How eloquent,” said Equity.

Slate placed the poker back on its stand. “I suppose I’ve no cause to hate thee. I mean, you.”

Brokenwing removed the chair beside Vigor and drew up to the table. “After I informed our guests of the importance of promptness, I see that Walker and our host have failed to show up.”

“Perhaps I’ve been here all along.” All eyes turned to an albino face that rose above the edge of the table next to Brokenwing. It was a pygmy, who climbed up in his chair and walked across the table. He hopped to the main table, and walked to the throne that sat behind the table. “As for Zetetic, it’s possible he’s too small to be seen. I led him to the mathematical realms earlier. He insisted on pressing on alone to explore past the zero, though I warned him he might return as only a fraction of himself.”

He knelt for a closer look and shook his head. “I sense no trace of him.”

Sorrow could hold her tongue no longer. “It’s you! You’re the pygmy who came to my tent!”

Walker nodded. “Indeed. I thought I recognized you. You’ve engaged in some interesting addition and subtraction of your own.”

“You’re the one who was looking for the Destroyer?” asked Slate.

“Yes. And you’re wondering if you’re him.”

“Am I?”

Walker shrugged. “It’s been, what, seventeen years since I gave the matter any thought.”

“It’s not even a month since I met you,” said Sorrow.

Walker chuckled and shook his head. “No, my poor witch. Eternities have passed. Admittedly, not locally. But I’m seldom in one place for long. I never visit hell without losing track of years.”

“Let’s get back to the Destroyer,” said Slate. “Who was he? What was he?”

Walker shrugged. “In the grand design, we’re all destroyers. We trample unseen kingdoms of insects beneath our heels, oblivious to their hopes and dreams, their wars and gods. We destroy nature, enslaving fields to do our bidding, robbing the ocean to steal food from the mouths of sharks. Even seated alone in a room, holding our breath, we grind the past to dust by perceiving the present. Destruction is a synonym for life.”

“I suppose that’s true, but the mundane destruction of ordinary life hardly seems like the type of destruction discussed in hell,” said Sorrow.

“I assure you that ordinary life is the most popular topic of conversation there.”

“I mean, demons would probably focus more on a Destroyer that burns cities and topples empires.”

“Or one who erects cities and builds empires,” the pygmy said.

“You’re not really answering our questions,” Sorrow grumbled.

“Perhaps you’re not really asking them,” said Walker, with a broad smile.

“Pay no mind to our pale associate,” said Vigor. “He’s completely in... sane...”

Vigor’s voice trailed off as he stared at the door. A tall man with a black ponytail had just walked backward into the room, completely naked, drenched in sweat and bleeding from a thousand small scratches. The blood was smeared into patterns of lines and squiggles. Sorrow squinted. Were they all numbers?

The man walked backward to his throne and sat, turning his face toward his guests. The large red ‘D’ tattooed in the middle of his forehead burned with a faint, pulsing glow. His mouth opened. “.reverof no tnew tsuj taht rebmun lanoitarri na htiw tnemugra na otni tog I .gnitiaw uoy peek ot yrroS”

Walker laughed so hard he fell off the table.

“?ynnuf os s’tahW” asked Zetetic.

Walker wiped tears from his eyes, unable to breathe.

“?ereh klat elpoep od noitcerid hcihW .etunim a tiaW” He stood up and walked around his throne backwards. When he said down he said, “Is this better? Do you understand me now?”

“I don’t think I’ve understood anything since I got off the damned boat,” said Bigsby.

“You’re Zetetic?” asked Brand.

“I certainly hope so,” the man answered. “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting. I’m sure you all must be hungry. Fortunately, I have the power to summon a feast from thin air merely by scratching my nose.”

He did so. Nothing happened. Sorrow blinked and suddenly all the tables were heaped with large platters of roasted birds, steaming cauldrons of soup, and bowls stacked high with fruit representing every color of the rainbow.

Bigsby stared at the platter of flaky white cod stacked before him. “I’m glad you didn’t live in Commonground,” he said. “It’s tough enough making a living selling fish.”

Zetetic waved his hand dismissively. “Your industry is safe. I never, never repeat myself.” He grabbed a quail and tore it in two, shoving the breast into his mouth. With his mouth full, he said, “Forgive me. I’m famished.” He glanced at Walker. “Next time, we should pack a lunch. I haven’t eaten in three days.”

“We just had dinner last night,” said Vigor.

“Time moves at different rates in some realms. It can get confusing. When Walker led me through the abode of dreams undreamt, we returned nineteen minutes before departing. I met myself as I was preparing to leave. Those nineteen minutes alone with myself were very educational.” He shook his head as a wistful smile settled upon his lips. “Very educational indeed.”

“Speaking of things that are confusing,” said Brand, “there’s a painting in my room I’d like you to look at.”

“The one with me, Walker, and the Witchbreaker?”

“You’ve seen it?”

“It was in my possession for a while. It used to hang in the Monastery of the Book until I stole it. When the church caught me and killed me for a little while last year, I lost track of it.”

“Do you know why you and I appear in the painting?” Slate asked.

“I have two theories,” said Zetetic. “The first is that, at some point in the future, I’ll travel into the past. Walker’s in the painting, so I assume he comes along.”

“I’m not in the painting,” said Walker.

“It certainly looks like—”

“I assure you, I’m not in the painting. Neither are you.”

“Are you arguing for the sake of argument here?” Zetetic asked. “Because I know what I’ve seen with my own eyes.”

“Do you?” asked Walker. “Or have your eyes been deceived by a falsehood? The representation of a thing is not the thing.”

Zetetic sighed and poured himself a glass of wine. “Some other time I’ll puzzle out what the hell it is you’re trying to say to me. Right now, I’ve got too much of a headache to focus on your riddles.” He took a long drink, emptying his glass, then poured himself another.

“What’s your second theory?” asked Sorrow.

“About what?”

“The painting. How you got into it.”

“Oh. Right. My second guess is that I’m a lunatic.” He downed the second glass of wine. “Do you know that a few weeks ago I walked into the interior of the sun and talked to the ghost who lives inside?” He ran his finger along the rim of the now-empty glass. “I’ve a dragon for a houseguest. I’ve danced across stone stripped of all truths to stare into the eyes of dead gods and witness the end of the world.” He let out a long sigh. “Now I’m drinking wine that I’ve lied into existence. Does any of this sound sensible?”

“I can think of few situations where drinking wine isn’t exquisitely sensible,” said Equity, raising a glass.

“True. But what if my sanity is so far gone that everything and everyone I experience are merely figments of my imagination? I can’t devise any possible test that could determine what’s real and what isn’t.” He threw his glass against the wall, where it shattered into shards. “Did that just break? Did I dream it broke? Was there a glass at all? Perhaps if I clapped my hands forcefully enough, I’d wake myself. Everyone here would vanish, fading as my true life returned.”

Sorrow inhaled sharply as Zetetic swung his hands toward one another. With his palms an inch apart, he snapped to a halt. He sat for several seconds, staring at his barely separated fingers. At last, he lowered his arms, and everyone let out their breath.

He grabbed an apple from a nearby bowl. “Now would be a poor time to test my theory. I detest dining alone.”

“If you’re done scaring us,” said Bigsby, “what about Slate?”

“What about him?”

“You said you thought you might go back in time to wind up in the painting. Why’s Slate in it?”

“Oh.” Zetetic chewed his apple thoughtfully. “I suppose he could also travel through time with me, and become Lord Stark Tower. Or perhaps he’s the original Tower, and has somehow managed to sleep all the way into our time.”

“Why don’t I have any of Tower’s memories?” asked Slate.

Zetetic shrugged. “Perhaps you aren’t him after all. Avaris was a master bone-weaver. If she ever got so much as a hair from the true Tower, she could have grown an exact duplicate.”

“How can I discover the truth?” Slate asked.

Zetetic shrugged. “Today I carved equations into my bare flesh with the thorn of a screaming cactus while sipping wormwood steeped in dragon’s urine. It tasted like doubt and despair, but I swallowed every drop so that I might glimpse one hair-thin aspect of truth.”

Brokenwing narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been collecting the contents of my chamber pot?”

Zetetic waved away his query. “Anyway, Slate, I’m sure Walker would be happy to ply you with various pharmaceuticals that would lift you above the confines of ordinary life in order to look down and see the larger patterns. Or if you want to know what Avaris has done, you could stop bothering me and just go ask her.”

“That’s easier said than done,” said Sorrow. “I’ve been searching for her for years. The letter that brought me here says she retreated to an eastern island, but beyond this I know nothing of where she might be, or if she’s even alive.”

“Of course she’s still alive,” said Zetetic. “At least, she was alive three years ago. I studied a full month in her walking castle.”

“You know her?” Sorrow asked.

“In every sense of the word,” said Zetetic. “She required I make love to her three times every night between the span of two full moons.” He eyed Slate. “I recommend a diet high in protein before you seek her out. You look like just her type.”

Sorrow slowly lowered her fork to her plate.

Equity studied her face and said, “You look absolutely mortified.”